


Wrong Address

by LadyGreyWrites



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGreyWrites/pseuds/LadyGreyWrites
Summary: Sansa and Margaery arrange for Brienne to have boudoir shots taken as a confidence booster. The proofs are delivered to the wrong address. Chaos ensues.Set in the same modern AU as Not Today and Therapy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennilynn411](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennilynn411/gifts), [BlueEyesBlueSkies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyesBlueSkies/gifts).



> Thanks, Jennilynn, for the prompt!
> 
> One-shot means three chapters right?

 

Brienne wasn’t quite sure why she agreed to this “girls night”, as Sansa and Margaery had called it. No one ever said No to Margaery Tyrell, although Brienne had certainly tried. But somehow, here she was, sitting on the floor of her living room in her pajamas, old episodes of Sex in the City playing on the television, junk food and gossip magazines scattered all around. Margaery was looking up Tormund Giantsbane on Facebook, because Sansa had so helpfully mentioned that Tormund had been asking Brienne out for months despite her turning him down every time.

“I need to see this Tormund guy!” Margaery was saying. “Is he cute? He’s Northern, right? I hear they’re wild in the sack!” Margaery scrolled through the search results. Really, how many Tormund Giantsbanes could there possibly be?

“There he is!” Sansa pointed and Margaery clicked on the profile picture.

“I think he’s cute!” Margaery exclaimed and scrolled some more. “Hey, his profile says –“ Margaery paused and exchanged a look with Sansa. “Actually, I don’t think he’s your type, Brienne. You could do much better,” Margaery said, closing her laptop.

Brienne was immediately suspicious. “What does it say?” she asked, standing and reaching for Margaery’s laptop. Powerfully built and over six feet tall, Brienne towered over her two friends. Margaery meekly handed over her laptop, shrugging when Sansa gave her a reproachful look.

Brienne sat on the couch and opened the laptop, wondering what could possibly make Margaery react that way. Suddenly she had a sinking feeling. Was Tormund gay? Brienne had never quite recovered when her childhood crush, Renly, had revealed that he preferred the company of men. She had felt like such an idiot that evening – Renly said he had something he needed to tell her, and she had been so sure he was going to tell her he was in love with her, as she was with him, but instead, his big secret was that he was gay.

Brienne shook her head and looked down at the laptop. She was being an idiot. Tormund was _not_ gay. She squinted at the screen. But he was in a relationship?

**In a relationship with Morna Whitemask.**

“But . . . how could he do that to me?” Brienne wondered out loud. “I thought he liked me.”

Sansa and Margaery exchanged another look.

“Brienne, you’ve been turning him down for months now,” Sansa said gently. “He had to move on eventually.”

Brienne felt the crushing weight of rejection. She buried her face in her hands. Why did she do this to herself? “It’s just so typical. _Men._ I don’t know why I ever fall for it. _Of course_ he was never interested in me. He probably just wanted something from me. Or it was part of a bet . . .” Brienne trailed off. She hadn’t told anyone about the bet, not even Sansa.

Brienne felt the couch cushions sink as Sansa and Margaery sat on either side of her, leaning in to offer their support. Brienne didn’t know Margaery very well, but Sansa had become a dear and trusted friend over the last year.

Tall and striking, with gorgeous auburn locks that fell to her waist, Sansa Stark’s career as an actress in Kings Landing was just starting to take off. Worried about her daughter’s newfound fame, Catelyn Stark had hired Brienne to be Sansa’s bodyguard. Brienne had tried to remain distant and stern with Sansa in order to protect her as best as possible, but Sansa would have nothing of the sort. She dragged Brienne to movies, and shopping, and out with her girlfriends until Brienne finally clued in that Sansa was inviting her along as a friend and not a bodyguard. Brienne had never had any female friends before.

Not that it was easy being friends with Sansa. Sansa and her best friend, Margaery, were slim and feminine, always dressed in the latest styles. Brienne felt like a lumbering beast next to them. And she saw the looks people gave her when she was out with Sansa and Margaery. Wondering why _she_ was with _them._

“This calls for ice cream,” Margaery announced, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“And more wine!” Sansa called after her.

* * *

 

After the first bottle of wine, Brienne didn’t remember much more of the evening – just a few bits and pieces. There had been several more bottles of wine after the first, she knew that. And she vaguely remembered marching down the hall to the apartment next door to her and pounding on the door yelling at her new neighbour from hell to turn his gods-awful music down.

Brienne pulled the covers over her head in embarrassment. She wished she _hadn’t_ remembered that part of the evening. Her neighbour had been a complete _ass_ ever since he moved in, listening to loud movies and music at all hours of the night, smoking out on his balcony even after Brienne had explained to him that she was allergic to cigarette smoke, and most infuriatingly, insisting on calling her “Ser” whenever they bumped into each other. Which was far more often than Brienne would have liked.

It only made it worse that the man was practically god-like. Tall and gorgeous with shoulder length golden locks and piercing green eyes. His eyes would have been magnificent except that they always held a look of mocking amusement that made Brienne feel like a living, walking joke. His physical perfection somehow just made her despise her large, ungainly body even more.

The neighbour from hell. Fucking Jaime Lannister.

Brienne eventually dragged herself out of bed and started cleaning up the disaster in the living room. Far too many empty bottles – how much had they drank? Brienne was thankful she hadn’t been too deep in her cups to insist that Sansa and Margaery take a cab home. She’d never forgive herself if something happened to Catelyn Stark’s daughter.

After the men’s rowing team’s highly competitive betting pool on who would take Brienne’s virginity came to light, her rugby coach had insisted that she see one of the University’s counsellors. Brienne had tried to explain that it was just another incident to add to the list, the list that grew longer year after year, of men ridiculing her. She was used to it.

The counsellor assigned to Brienne’s case was Catelyn Stark. Catelyn had put relentless pressure on the school administration to see that the rowing team was punished accordingly. Eventually, the dean had given in, and each of the rowers were given a lifetime ban from ever competing again. In addition, the two students who had masterminded the betting pool were both suspended from the university. Brienne would always be grateful to Catelyn.

Brienne cleaned up the last of the candy wrappers in the living room and collapsed on the couch. Thank gods she didn’t have to work this weekend. For once, Sansa didn’t have any press events scheduled.

Brienne spent the rest of the day on the couch watching the Northern Hockey Championships. A southerner, Brienne hadn’t really cared about hockey growing up, but somehow Sansa had her hooked on watching the popular northern sport.

At 6 p.m., the news came on. The breaking story was a horrific car crash on Highway 5 outside Highgarden. Drunk driver, the reporter said. Two men taken to hospital – the driver and passenger. No other vehicles were involved. Brienne felt another wave of gratitude that she had insisted on Sansa and Margaery calling a cab.

Later that evening, Brienne was just about to get ready for bed when she heard an odd noise from next door. Was that . . . a baby crying?

She listened for a moment longer. Not a baby. A cat!

_Jaime Lannister had a cat?_

Was he even home? Come to think of it, Brienne hadn’t heard a sound from Jaime’s apartment all day. She stepped out into the hallway and listened at Jaime’s door.

“Merrrrrr- _eow_!”

The cat was just inside the door now, sensing that someone was close by. Brienne knocked on the door and waited.

No answer. What an ass that man was, leaving his cat to starve all day. Maybe he’d be home soon.

Brienne went back to her own apartment and went to bed. She woke up hours later to the cat’s incessant howling. The poor thing must be starving.

Brienne sat up and contemplated. Had Jaime gone away for the weekend and left the cat to fend for itself? She considered calling the landlord but somehow didn’t think Petyr Baelish would appreciate being woken up at . . . Brienne glanced at the clock . . . 3:15 a.m.

If Jaime was like everyone else on the 14th floor of the Red Tower Executive Condominium building, he probably didn’t bother locking his balcony door.

Somehow, a few minutes later, Brienne found herself balancing on the rail of her balcony in her pajamas, clinging to a drain pipe for dear life. _Do not look down_ , she told herself. Thank the gods it was dark. It would be just her luck if someone thought she was a burglar and called the police.

Brienne took a deep breath to steady herself and slowly stood up on the railing. There was only a three foot gap between her railing and Jaime’s railing. And a very long drop to the sidewalk below. _Don’t think about it_.

She steeled herself and jumped over to Jaime’s balcony, sailing over the railing and landing with a thud on the balcony floor.

The cat’s wailing was suddenly louder. Brienne peered through the glass doors. Yes, the cat was sitting just inside the door, looking up at her plaintively and howling in distress.

Brienne tried the door. Unlocked.

“Hello?” she called. “Jaime?”

Nothing. He still wasn’t home. Brienne stepped inside and slid the door shut behind her. The cat immediately started purring. It was a great, fat creature, its fur mottled black and white.

Brienne walked through the living room, trying not to trip over the cat circling her legs and purring happily. The condo was surprisingly clean. There were several empty bottles of wine on the kitchen island, but Brienne couldn’t exactly judge when she likely had the same or more sitting on her own counter.

She only had to open two cupboard doors before she found the bag of dry food and soon the cat was happily eating. Brienne was feeling quite pleased with herself as she stepped out of Jaime’s apartment into the hallway.

The elevator dinged across the hallway, and the doors opened.

 _Jaime_.

He looked terrible, scratches on his face and dark circles under his eye. His arm was in a cast.

“What the hell were you doing in my suite?” he asked, scowling. He sounded too exhausted to work up much ire.

“Your arm . . . “ Brienne said, staring at the cast. She glanced up at his face and realized he was waiting for an answer. “I heard your cat meowing. I fed him.”

Jaime frowned. “How did you get in?”

Brienne shrugged. “The balcony,” she said.

“You crazy wench!” Jaime said, staring her in astonishment. “It’s fourteen stories up!”

Brienne pulled herself up to her full height. “I was worried about your cat,” she said stiffly.

Jaime stared for a moment longer and then unlocked the door to his suite. “I can take care of my own damned cat,” he mumbled, pushing the door open with his left hand.

“What happened?”

“Car accident,” he said impatiently, and entered his condo and started to close the door on Brienne.

“I saw it on the news. You were drinking,” she accused.

Jaime’s face looked weary. “I wasn’t. My nephew was driving. Good night, Brienne.”

He closed the door.

Brienne fished her keys out of the pocket in her pajama pants and went back into her own condo.


	2. Chapter 2

****

**Sansa: Are you ready to go? We’re downstairs waiting for you!**

Brienne looked at the clock. 9 in the morning. On a Sunday, no less.

**Brienne: Where exactly are we going?**

**Sansa: Don’t you remember? We booked that boudoir photo shoot for you this afternoon. We need to go shopping to find you something to wear!!**

Brienne stared at her phone.

**Brienne: ??**

**Sansa: Friday night! You promised! Margaery and I made all the arrangements. Get your butt down here!!!**

Brienne groaned. There would definitely be no more _girls nights_ with Sansa and Margaery. And no more drinking. What in seven hells had she agreed to?

Brienne quickly brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face. _Boudoir shots_. What in hells had she been thinking?

She threw on the jeans and sweater she had been wearing the day before and ran out to meet Sansa and Margaery.

“First stop: Melisandre’s Secret!” Sansa said with glee. “Melisandre herself agreed to meet us.”

Margaery leaned forward from the back seat of Sansa’s little sports car. “Are you serious? How did you swing that? She mostly just does business consulting now – she’s working with Stannis Baratheon on a new sustainable mining project at Casterly.”

Brienne sat silently in the front passenger seat as Sansa and Margaery nattered on about Stannis’s divorce, and whether or not Melisandre’s hair was natural, and then about what kind of lingerie would best suit Brienne.

Brienne closed her eyes. _Make it all go away._

When they reached the store, Brienne was both relieved and embarrassed to find out that Melisandre had opened the store just for her – they normally weren’t open on Sundays.

Melisandre seemed to ooze sensuality and sex appeal in her silk slip of a dress that would have been entirely appropriate as nightwear. A black leather jacket thrown overtop chased away any notion that she was a soft or delicate woman. But it was not without kindness that Melisandre welcomed Brienne into her shop.

“Tell me, Brienne. What is your vision for your photo shoot?”

Brienne gave Sansa an alarmed look. “I need a vision?”

“Leopard print!” Margaery squealed, holding up a garment that looked like strips of animal print and . . . not much else.

“How about a yule theme?” Sansa asked, holding up a red velvet number trimmed in white fur. “Very seasonal!”

Brienne backed up, closer to the door. “I don’t think this is going to work . . .”

Melisandre stepped forward and took Brienne in hand and led her back into the store. “Nonsense. Let’s work with your own personal style. What do you normally wear?”

“Ill-fitting black suits?” Margaery said, giggling.

“Margaery!” Sansa admonished her friend, giving her a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Melisandre looked thoughtful. “Menswear . . . I can work with that.” She started walking around her store, pulling various items off the racks. “Silk pajamas, definitely. And a men’s dress shirt . . . I have some in the roleplaying section. But you’ll need something feminine too. A classic negligee?” She paused and turned to Brienne. “Is black your colour? Does it make you feel powerful?”

Brienne was still standing, shell-shocked, where Melisandre had left her. “Uh, yes, I guess so. I wear black when I’m on duty. It makes me feel . . . official, I guess.”

“Good enough,” Melisandre said, adding a few different black, slinky nightgowns to the pile draped over her arm. “And you will need a lingerie set for under the dress shirt.”

Margaery held up the strips of leopard print again, waggling her eyebrows.

Melisandre’s gaze fell on Margaery for moment. “Leopard print? Perhaps not for Brienne. Though I think it would be lovely on you, Margaery.” Margaery happily skipped to the changeroom, garment in hand.

“I think black lace, something vintage,” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes at Brienne. “I’m picturing her hair in pin curls. Very old-world-glamorous.”

Melisandre nodded approvingly at Sansa. “You have good instincts. I know just the thing.” She plucked a garment off another rack. To Brienne’s eye, it just looked like tiny scraps of black lace.

“Thigh highs,” Sansa added, handing a cellophane-wrapped package to Brienne. “And heels.”

“Size 11?” Melisandre asked, studying Brienne’s feet.

Brienne nodded, speechless.

A few minutes later, Brienne was alone in the velvet draped dressing room. The garments of silk and lace were hung neatly on little gold hooks.

“Are you ready?” Sansa asked from just outside the curtain.

“No!” Brienne gasped, struggling to fasten the tiny bra hooks behind her back. Melisandre had been so confident that Brienne would love the matching panties that she told her to go ahead and try them on.

Brienne looked at herself in the mirror.

“I’m not coming out!” she yelled. She turned for the side view. It wasn’t _completely_ awful. The black lace did look sort of pretty against her pale, freckled skin. The bra had some sort of foam inserts in the cups that actually gave her some cleavage.

“Oh my gods, who knew _that_ was hiding under all those baggy clothes?”

Brienne shrieked when she turned to see Margaery and Sansa peeking through the opening in the curtain.

“Get out get out get out!” she cried, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to cover her nakedness.

“Enough, Brienne.”

Melisandre’s voice had a no-nonsense tone as she briskly pulled the curtains aside, removing the last bit of privacy that Brienne had been clinging on to.

“Absolutely lovely,” Melisandre said matter-of-factly, a gleam of triumph in her eyes. “And those legs . . . put these heels on.” She set a pair of black patent stilettos at Brienne’s feet. Melisandre’s tone didn’t leave a lot of room for arguing, so Brienne slipped her feet into the high-heeled shoes.

“Look at yourself,” Melisandre said, standing at Brienne’s side. Her words made Brienne realize that her eyes were squeezed shut. She reluctantly opened them and looked in the mirror. Her legs looked . . . nice. They were long and slim; Brienne had always been grateful for that. And the shoes were sexy, she had to admit.

“There is a spark in you, Brienne, waiting to be kindled, and I think you’ve just taken your first step toward the flames,” Melisandre said.

* * *

Brienne had to admit. She felt pretty for the first time in her life. Thank the gods, the photographer was a woman. Ellaria had a casual demeanour that immediately put Brienne at ease. At first, Ellaria and her partner, Oberyn, were going to work together on the shoot, but Brienne had put her foot down.

“Absolutely not,” she informed Sansa, Margaery and the photographer couple. Oberyn had purred his regrets on not being able to work with “such a veritable warrior queen”.

“Those legs!” he lamented on his way out the door, making Brienne blush fiercely.

But she had been more comfortable after he left the room. The room had been booked in a stylish boutique hotel in downtown King’s Landing, and Ellaria was shooting with the soft light that came through the sheer white curtains.

The poses she chose for Brienne felt natural and seemed tasteful. Brienne felt sexy in the luxurious silk pajama top with just enough buttons undone to show a hint of lace-covered cleavage. And she had to hand it to Melisandre – the men’s dress shirt had been an excellent idea.

Brienne, Sansa and Margaery sipped martinis between shots when Ellaria was busy changing lenses or setting up a different scene, and by the time Ellaria asked Brienne to remove the dress shirt entirely, Brienne was just drunk enough to only be a little bit embarrassed.

Margaery’s lewd jokes made Brienne blush and laugh, and Ellaria snapped away, commenting on how fabulous she looked.

Brienne was almost disappointed when the day was over and Sansa dropped her off in front of her condo building. She rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, and when the doors opened, Brienne was greeted by the dulcet tones of Jaime Lannister, cursing as he tried to unlock the door to his suite.

He had several grocery bags slung over his good arm and was struggling to fit the key into the lock. Brienne glanced at the haven of her own suite door before reluctantly turning back to Jaime. She couldn’t just leave him there.

“Here,” she said gruffly, yanking the keys out of his hands, neatly unlocking the door, and holding it open for him.

Jaime looked at her curiously. “Thanks . . . _Ser,_ ” he said, squeezing past her through the doorway. It was a tight fit with all his grocery bags, and the brief contact of his firm body against hers left Brienne breathless. Gods, what was wrong with her? He was a complete ass, despite his oh-so-perfect body.

She followed him into his suite. It was a disaster, compared to the last time she had seen it. Dishes piled up in the sink, crumpled up paper on the floor, and the cupboard with the cat food was open. The bag of dry food was tipped over and Jaime’s cat was munching away.

She stared as he struggled to put the grocery bags on the counter.

“What? You came here to watch me fail at putting groceries away?”

Brienne shook her head. “No! I came in to help.” She rushed forward and took the bags from him. When she looked closer, she saw that his face was drawn in pain. “Did they give you any painkillers at the hospital?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jaime said reluctantly, nodding toward a white paper bag on the counter.

“Sit down and rest,” she ordered him, taking charge.

“Yes, ser,” Jaime said, tone mocking, but he sat down heavily on the leather sofa.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Brienne said, handing him a glass of water and two tablets.

His gaze seemed heavy on hers as he took the water and swallowed the pills. “You’re always so damned serious,” he said. “It suits you.”

Brienne turned back to the kitchen and started putting the groceries away. She could feel Jaime watching her as she placed the last few cans in the pantry and turned to open the dishwasher.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

Brienne shrugged, placing the dirty dishes from the sink in the dishwasher. “You live alone. There’s no one here to help you. I can only hope someone would do the same for me if I was hurt or sick.”

Jaime’s expression was unreadable. “How very . . . honourable . . . of you.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow at him as she straightened up from the dishwasher. “I didn’t realize Jaime Lannister was an expert in _honour_ ,” she said, and immediately regretted her words.

“There it is,” he said quietly, face grim. “There’s the look. I’ve seen it year after year on face after face. You all despise me. A man without honour. What stories have you heard?” he challenged her.

“I read the papers. I know your testimony in court took down Targaryen Productions and not a year later, you were the youngest CEO ever at Baratheon Film,” she said, staring him down.

Jaime’s lip curled in a bitter smile. “So exposing the illegal business practices and human right violations of my employer makes me dishonourable?”

“Your timing was questionable,” Brienne said. “And gods know what sort of deal you made in exchange for your testimony. You were the only executive who didn’t end up behind bars after the trial. You knew what was going on there all along, and when the ship started to sink, you made sure you came out on top.”

Jaime seemed ready to argue with her, but just as quickly, the ire seemed to drain, and only weariness remained. “I know how it looked,” he said, examining his cast. “We’re supposed to be loyal to our government, loyal to our family, loyal to our employer. What do you do when all three are at odds?”

“You do what is _right._ ”

Jaime scoffed. “Maybe _your_ life is that simple.” He paused, seemingly remembering who he was talking to. “What are you still doing here, anyway? Don’t you have a boyfriend who is wondering where you are or something?”

“No,” Brienne said, and then cursed herself for even gracing him with an answer.

“I should have known,” Jaime said, green eyes narrowed, “the short hair, those clothes. I just thought, with that giant shopping bag from Melisandre’s Secret . . . a girlfriend, then?”

Brienne angrily yanked her pink and white shopping bag off the counter and turned to leave. “Goodbye, Lannister.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jaime exited the elevator onto the fourteenth floor, his mail tucked under his cast arm. He glanced down the hall to Brienne’s door as he was unlocking the door to his suite.

He hadn’t seen the crazy wench all week. It was disappointing, somehow. He had started to look forward to any opportunity to get those gorgeous blues flashing with anger. And it was just so damned easy.

Jaime entered his suite and tossed the mail onto the counter.

He wasn’t sure why he had felt the need to explain his actions at a court trial that happened more than twenty years ago.

 _A lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinion of sheep_ , his father always said.

But for whatever reason, he cared what Brienne thought of him. Big Brienne and her . . . _honour._ There was no doubt that _she_ always did what was good, what was right. Jumping across the balcony to feed his useless lug of a _cat,_ for gods sakes.

Jaime poked through his pile of mail. Bills, mostly. But there was one big envelope marked DO NOT BEND on the back. Legal documents, maybe. Or a new calendar from his real estate agent. It was that time of year, after all.

Jaime tore open the envelope, not bothering to look at the sender address, and pulled out what looked to be a photographer’s contact sheet. His eyes widened when he saw the very . . . suggestive . . . photos that were displayed on the sheet. He dropped the contact sheet and flipped the envelope over.

Brienne of Tarth  
Suite 1408, Red Tower Executive Suites  
  
_Wrong address_. Brienne’s suite number was 140 _6_. Oh, what sick twist of fate had led to this envelope being delivered to Jaime’s mailbox . . .

Jaime picked up the contact sheet again for a closer look. It was Brienne like he’d never seen her before. The first two shots showed her smiling playfully at the camera, dressed in a silky pajama top and nothing else. She looked like the kind of woman a man wouldn’t mind waking up to each morning.

There was a hint of leg showing in the second photo. Jaime smiled. He had long suspected that Brienne had great legs underneath those awful polyester dress pants she was always wearing.

Jaime sat down on the couch, contact sheet still in hand, trying to ignore the stirring of interest in his groin. The next few shots were of Brienne wearing a black dress of some sort, her head turned to the camera in a sultry gaze. Jaime’s heart pounded. He hadn’t thought her even capable of such a gaze. It was the kind of look that could bring a man to his knees.

Jaime hungrily ate up the next few images with his eyes. In the first, she was wearing a man’s dress shirt, and then in each shot following, she was wearing . . . less of the man’s dress shirt. Jaime felt a sudden flash of guilt. He shouldn’t be looking at these photos – they weren’t meant to be seen by him. He did briefly wonder though, who exactly _was_ meant to see them.

The last photo was the only one in colour. It was a close-up of Brienne’s face – an enigmatic expression on her face, her pale skin setting off the gorgeous crystal blue of her eyes. She really did have astonishing eyes.

Jaime stood up and returned the contact sheet to its envelope. _Martell Photography_ , the sender address read. The thought of that womanizer, Oberyn Martell, with his cheesy accent and sleazy pick-up lines taking these photos of Brienne, Jaime’s big, beautiful Brienne . . . the intensity of the jealous rage that passed through Jaime’s body nearly took his breath away. If that Dornish manwhore ever laid a hand on her, Jaime would punch him in the face . . . or, at least club him over the head with his cast.

He shoved the envelope underneath the pile of bills. He’d have to figure out what to do with it. _Later._

* * *

Brienne wasn’t sure why she was making a double batch of lasagna. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. That poor man, with his broken arm. Certainly, his vitriol had chased off any friends he might have had. _Someone_ had to feed Jaime Lannister. Besides, she told herself, if he starved and died, she’d be stuck taking care of his cat.

She had managed to avoid him all week, carefully listening at the door before leaving her condo, and taking the stairs to make sure she didn’t get stuck in the elevator with him. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the _regret_ in his voice when he had spoken of the Targaryen trial. Maybe there was more to Jaime Lannister than the selfish rich boy everyone assumed he was.

Brienne picked a stray shred of cheese off her new sweater. In a way, the boudoir shoot had been life-changing. Brienne had returned to Melisandre’s Secret and replaced half of her sports bras and cotton underwear with pretty matching bra and panty sets. And she had even gone shopping with Sansa, and for the first time, tried on some of the clothing that Sansa suggested. Skinny jeans, she discovered, were a tall girl’s best friend. Tucked into boots, no one could tell if her jeans were a smidge too short for her long legs.

Brienne glanced at the calendar and made a mental note to call the photography studio to check on the status of her proofs. It had been over a week since the shoot and she had expected to receive the contact sheet in the mail by this time.

The oven dinged, indicating it was finished pre-heating. Brienne popped the two pans of lasagna in the oven and set the timer.

* * *

Jaime was just about to order a pizza (again) when there was a soft knock at his door. He opened the door to find Brienne standing there, holding a pan of something that smelled absolutely delicious.

Her smile was wary. “I thought you might like a home-cooked meal,” she said.

She was absolutely stunning in a cerulean blue sweater that matched her eyes perfectly. And the fitted jeans she wore hugged her thighs enticingly before disappearing into sexy brown leather boots. Jaime took a moment to ponder whether she had always looked this good, or if it was just because he now knew how great she looked in her underwear.

“Um. Can I come in?”

Her voice startled him out of his musings. He was being rude. “Of course! I’m sorry,” he said, moving out of her way so she could carry the steaming pan into the kitchen.

Brienne pulled the foil off the pan, revealing a baked lasagna, the melted cheese still bubbling. Jaime couldn’t remember the last time someone cooked him a meal. Probably not since he had moved out of his father’s house.

“It looks wonderful,” he said, hoping he sounded as appreciative as he felt. “Eat with me?” he asked on impulse.

She looked surprised and flustered by his invitation. “Sure,” she said, not looking sure at all. “If you want me to.”

He let her set the table while he selected a bottle of wine. He held the bottle between his legs and deftly uncorked it with his left hand.

Brienne had been watching. Jaime grinned. “Pretty impressive, no? I’ve been honing my skills all week,” he said, nodding toward the collection of empty bottles on the counter.

“I hear there’s quite a demand for one-handed sommeliers,” Brienne said wryly. Ah, so she _did_ have a sense of humour under all that stoicism.

They sat down to eat and Jaime found himself in the unfamiliar position of not knowing what to say. Brienne was quiet as well and the silence felt heavy between them. Jaime had a sudden longing for his younger brother’s glibness of tongue. No one kept a conversation going like Tyrion.

“Listen,” Jaime finally said, setting his fork down. “I’m sorry about last weekend. It’s really none of my business whether you like women or men, and I don’t judge either way.”

Brienne stared at him. Was she angry? Gods, he was such an idiot. Why had he even brought it up?

“I like men, Jaime.”

 _Oh._ Jaime polished off the wine that was left in his glass. “Really,” he said, eyeing her speculatively. “What kind of men do you like?”

She blushed a little. She was pretty when she blushed. Making her blush was even better than making her angry, Jaime decided.

“I don’t know,” she said, looking embarrassed. “No one’s ever asked me that before. I suppose I like men who . . . like me. And there don’t seem to be any.”

“I didn’t realize there was a shortage of men who liked tall, gorgeous women who make a killer lasagna,” Jaime said teasingly.

It didn’t get quite the reaction he expected. She gave him a dirty look. “Very funny,” she said, and poked at her food.

He tried again. “Do you like . . . blond men?” he asked. “With broken arms?” He gave her his most winning smile.

Brienne stared at him, and he couldn’t tell if she was angry or if she thought he was a complete idiot. She took a sip of wine before responding. “Potentially,” she said, eyes sparkling. “But it’s hard to tell, because the only man I know like that is a complete ass most of the time.”

“Well . . .” Jaime said, frantically trying to think of something witty to say. “Maybe his broken arm makes him cranky,” he finished lamely.

Brienne pressed her lips together, but not quite quick enough to stop Jaime from seeing the little twitch at the corner of her mouth that hinted at a smile. “Maybe,” she said, with a dismissive roll of her eyes.

She actually had the upper hand with him, Jaime realized, and it was incredibly sexy.

Brienne stood up from the table and gathered the dishes. Jaime stood as well and followed her into the kitchen, suddenly unable to stay away.

She loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and then straightened up, looking around the kitchen. She and Jaime both reached for the dirty glass on the counter at the same time, her hand bumping his, causing him to knock the pile of mail onto the floor.

_Oh gods, NO._

She was already squatting down to pick up the mail.

“Brienne, don’t,” he said.

She looked up with an amused smile. “It’s fine, Jaime.”  

She stood back up, mail in hand, and Jaime groaned inwardly when he saw that the large envelope was on top. She set the mail back on the counter, and looked down at the envelope in surprise. Her name had caught her eye, no doubt.

Jaime waited. There was really no way of avoiding this, he figured.

Brienne looked at him in horror. “Why do you have my mail?”

He pointed to the address helpfully. “It was addressed to my suite by accident. Brienne, it was an honest mistake. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do about it. Pretty awkward, right?”

She pulled the contact sheet out of the envelope and her face went beet red, whether from embarrassment or rage, he wasn’t sure. “And you _opened_ it?” she asked, voice rising in volume.

“I did – it was before I saw that it was mislabeled. Brienne, really, it was an honest mistake.”

“I should press charges,” she exclaimed, glaring at him in fury, “For, for . . . mail fraud!” She clasped the envelope to her chest and stormed out the door.

Jaime chased after her. “Brienne, wait!”

But by the time he made it out to the hallway, she was already entering her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

“You looked really pretty in the photos,” he said to the empty hallway.

* * *

Brienne woke in the morning from a fitful sleep. She had spent much of the evening staring at the photo contact sheet. _Was that really her?_ She couldn’t believe that she looked like that. And that _Jaime_ had seen her like that. The thought of him looking through the proofs was completely humiliating and also strangely exciting.

She rolled out of bed and jumped in the shower. Sansa had an early morning appearance at a Yule charity event downtown and Brienne would be accompanying her. After showering, Brienne quickly dressed in her usual black suit and retrieved her gun and holster from the safe in the closet.

She listened at the door for a moment before stepping out into the hallway. She definitely didn’t want to run into Jaime. She pressed the down button on the elevator and waited. The elevator dinged when it reached the fourteenth floor, and at the same time, the door to Jaime’s suite swung open.

“Brienne?”

Oh _gods,_ he’d been waiting for her. _Hurry up, door, open already!_

Jaime stepped out into the hallway, looking like he’d slept about as well as she had. The door _still_ wasn’t open. Brienne turned and ran for the stairs. She had almost made it to the stairwell when Jaime grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around.

“Brienne, just listen to me,” he said, green eyes unusually sincere. “I’m sorry I opened your mail. I didn’t mean to, but I’m sorry you feel like your privacy was violated. But . . . I’m not sorry I saw those photos. They were . . . you were . . . you _are . . . stunning._ ” He paused and lifted his eyes to the heavens as if in prayer. “Ah, fuck it,” he said, and kissed her.

Brienne stood, frozen to the ground, as his lips moved against hers, gently teasing her until she parted her lips, and then his tongue was delving deeper. _Gods,_ the man could kiss. She moved her tongue tentatively against his before pulling away.

“Jaime?” she asked, bewildered.

He grinned and looked up. “Mistletoe,” he said.

Brienne followed his gaze up.

“Jaime, that’s an exit sign.”

“Really? I could have sworn it was mistletoe.”

He kissed her again.


End file.
